About Orchids eBook

Despairing of horticulture indoors as out, I sometimes
thought of orchids. I had seen much of them in
their native homes, both East and West—­enough
to understand that their growth is governed by strict
law. Other plants—­roses and so forth—­are
always playing tricks. They must have this and
that treatment at certain times, the nature of which
could not be precisely described, even if gardening
books were written by men used to carry all the points
of a subject in their minds, and to express exactly
what they mean. Experience alone, of rather a
dirty and uninteresting class, will give the skill
necessary for success. And then they commit villanies
of ingratitude beyond explanation. I knew that
orchids must be quite different. Each class demands
certain conditions as a preliminary: if none
of them can be provided, it is a waste of money to
buy plants. But when the needful conditions are
present, and the poor things, thus relieved of a ceaseless
preoccupation, can attend to business, it follows
like a mathematical demonstration that if you treat
them in such and such a way, such and such results
will assuredly ensue. I was not aware then that
many defy the most patient analysis of cause and effect.
That knowledge is familiar now; but it does not touch
the argument. Those cases also are governed by
rigid laws, which we do not yet understand.

Therefore I perceived or suspected, at an early date,
that orchid culture is, as one may say, the natural
province of an intelligent and enthusiastic amateur
who has not the technical skill required for growing
common plants. For it is brain-work—­the
other mechanical. But I shared the popular notion—­which
seems so very absurd now—­that they are
costly both to purchase and to keep: shared it
so ingenuously that I never thought to ask myself
how or why they could be more expensive, after the
first outlay, than azaleas or gardenias. And meanwhile
I was laboriously and impatiently gathering some comprehension
of the ordinary plants. It was accident which
broke the spell of ignorance. Visiting Stevens’
Auction Rooms one day to buy bulbs, I saw a Cattleya
Mossiae, in bloom, which had not found a purchaser
at the last orchid sale. A lucky impulse tempted
me to ask the price. “Four shillings,”
said the invaluable Charles. I could not believe
it—­there must be a mistake: as if
Charles ever made a mistake in his life! When
he repeated the price, however, I seized that precious
Cattleya, slapped down the money, and fled with it
along King Street, fearing pursuit. Since no one
followed, and Messrs. Stevens did not write within
the next few days reclaiming my treasure, I pondered
the incident calmly. Perhaps they had been selling
bankrupt stock, and perhaps they often do so.
Presently I returned.

“Charles!” I said, “you sold me
a Cattleya Mossiae the other day.”

Charles, in shirt-sleeves of course, was analyzing
and summing up half a hundred loose sheets of figures,
as calm and sure as a calculating machine. “I
know I did, sir,” he replied, cheerfully.